


The Great Vanishing Act of 1994

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: Eerie Indiana
Genre: Angst, Burns, Disabled Character, F/M, Gen, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel, WIP, alcohol consumption, happily married couple, relationship dynamic changes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-12-20 09:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11918223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: 1994: Marshall Teller vanishes the same night the Old Hitchcock Mill burns down.2004: Marshall Teller returns the same night the Old Hitchcock Mill burned down ten years ago.Which would have been great, if not for one tiny, little, itty bitty issue. He hasn't aged a day.





	1. Dirty Water

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure how long this is actually going to be, but I have chapter two written, also. I don't generally write chapter fics like this but I like to live on the edge sometimes.

Simon is lonely. Not in the sense that he is alone, it’s a reasonably busy night at the bar he’s chosen to get drunk at, but lonely in the sense that he’s missing someone. He took a sip of beer from his glass and turned an eye over the place. Standing tables crowded by people picking at nuts and chips. A window in need of a good clean. People to his left all enjoying themselves. A tried and disinterested barkeep wiping a filthy tabletop with a filthy rag. His kind of place.  
  
The disinterested barkeep (Dash, to his friends) wandered over and leaned on the bar in front of him.  
“I take it the tour went well..”  
“It did.” He replied, before swallowing another mouthful of drink. He’s a poet, isn’t he? Isn’t that what poet’s do? Drink? He’s just come off the last leg of his tour for his book of poems ‘Childhood Chills’ based off of what he and Marshall had written in their draft book. “It’s projected to be a success.” He told Dash, swallowing another mouthful of his drink. He feels pleasantly lightheaded.  
It’s that night of the year again. It doesn’t matter how many years go by, or what happens in them, Simon always feels compelled to drink himself out over it. Bar hopping is not exactly his style, but from experience, he thinks Dash will stop serving him soon. He’s good like that.  
  
 It might be for the best anyway. The Tellers are family, but even they have limits; Simon coming home wasted is one of them.  
“That’s good.” Dash said, with an awkward smile. He’s not especially good at this whole interpersonal thing, but he’s improving, Simon thought, swallowing another mouthful of his drink. It tastes bitter and miserable, but no one drinks for the taste, or so his father had once told him.  
Dash is not mentioning it either. In theory, it’s harder for him. After all: He has a physical reminder of what happened, Simon only has his memories, and even those are turning yellow on the edges. Using his gloved hand, Dash whisked away his empty glass. Simon made eye contact with him in a Mexican stand off.  He’s already lost, but he still does. Eventually, he sat back and nodded to himself.  
“Alright, alright. I’m going. Look, I’m even calling a taxi.” He said, knowing full well that a number of cab drivers in Eerie was small and none of them were out this late. He still tugged his phone from his pocket (Blue, of course) and flipped it open, pretending to call. Dash rolled his eyes, but it was mostly in good humor.  
  
Simon lied to him, he didn’t go back to the Teller residence. He was a bit drunk, but not too drunk. Not drunk enough. The streets of Eerie are grim at night, the street lamps are old fashioned and cast a soft yellow glow over the whole street. He wandered down the street, away from the bar, and in the opposite direction to the Teller house.  
He passed the World ‘O Stuff. His book is on display in the front window, with a sign. He paused and took another look at the cover. It was one he’d chosen himself. The picture was taken by Marylin - not – Mrs- Teller and depicted him as a young boy sitting at the backyard table with Marshall both of them holding Fourth of July sparklers and laughing. The photo is slightly blurry, the camera couldn’t capture Marshall properly, he was bending over in laughter at something Simon had said. He smiles back at the ghostly image.  
There’s a review there as well if he squints he can just make out the print.

‘- Focusing on his friendship with an older boy, his poems all explore different odd and surreal situations the pair found themselves in. The tone of the anthology is mostly light, with the notable exception of ‘Beurau of Lost’. This poem is the only one that discusses the older friends mysterious disappearance in 1994. In an interview, Holmes said  
‘I’ve never spoken publicly about Mars. I don’t want him to be remembered in history as a missing person, I want him to be remembered for being a funny, smart and brave kid.’ – ‘

He looks away, the drunk feeling no longer pleasant, but rather, slightly nauseous. He doesn’t want to read anything else about his work. What he actually wants, is to go home. Or, more accurately, to go back to the Teller house, and find Marshall inside, on the couch in his Giants sweatshirt. He must be drunker than he thought.  
  
He continued wandering the streets, passed the Bus stop that never seemed to have any buses, and the Bait Shop and Sushi Bar. His feet knew where he was going, even if his heart didn’t. Really, there was only one acceptable place to go tonight.  
As he reached the edge of town, the light became fewer, and the air became thicker. His eyes adjusted slowly, the moon overhead was halfway full, but he isn’t sure if it’s waxing or waning. He had just enough light to make his way to the Old Hitchcock Mill. It’s a familiar path, a pilgrimage he’s made once a year, every year, for the last ten. Dash, to his knowledge, hasn’t been back and that doesn’t surprise him.  None of the Teller family even know that he was there.  
  
The air is full of psychosomatic smoke, thick and heavy. His feet feel heavy. His heart is sore, but if that’s from the memory of Marshall or his recent break-up, he doesn’t know. The ruins of the mill are yet to be touched. The wood is rotted, and charred but some how still standing. In theory, he could walk on it, but he’s drunk, not a fucking dumbass. Instead, he sat on the bank by the lake and looked out at the water, dirty and impure.  
  
“I can’t believe you’ve been gone for ten years.” He said, finally. “Feels like yesterday we were running around chasing monsters.” He sighed, knowing that he may as well be screaming into the void for all the good it would do him. “I’m still not sure that I believe in God.” He said, “But I like to believe in Heaven because it means that we’ll meet again, my friend.”  
In his mind, he can hear Marshall screaming over the cracking popping noise of wood as it burned. He’s lying on the ground, he can see Dash’s boots just out of the corner of his eyes as he ran back into the burning building. He doesn’t like revisiting these memories. He’s always torn between wanting more so he can remember more, maybe think of where Marshall could have gone, and wanting less, so he didn’t have to remember the last time he saw his best friend. Depending on his mood, he fluctuated between the two.  
He doesn’t have much more time for ruminating on long ago crimes, though.

  In the lake, bubbles begin to rise to the surface. He didn’t notice for several seconds, but since the water was still, his eyes were drawn to it. He didn’t much know what to make of it. He could go investigate it as Eerie Weirdness, but his feet wouldn’t move. He’s scared, his brain says belatedly. He needn’t have worried, however, because the choice is made for him when out of the blue, the surface of the water breaks.  
And a person comes free and swims towards the shore, right to the still panicked Simon. Once he reaches the embankment, the figure collapsed onto the dirt panting hard and lips blue.  
  
Grabbing his house keys as quickly as he could, Simon turned on the tiny flashlight key ring and aimed it at the figure, who was unmoving, shivering and panting.  
He was wearing a singed blue jumper and a heavy, saturated green coat. Simon rolled the man onto his back and then hesitated when he saw the key on a chain around his neck. Looking up, he reached out a shaking hand to push soft brown hair away from this man, no, child’s face.  
Marshall.  
Marshall, Marshall, Marshall.  
…

Dash still doesn’t much appreciate being touched. Which probably contributed to how he ended up here. He doesn’t spend a lot of time considering his actions because he’s pretty sure that it would just hurt him if he did, but he does know why he continues to give into this particular vice.  
  
Simon, using his ridiculous college educated mind,  used the term self-flagellation. Implying that Dash did what he did as a way to punish himself for what happened to Marshall and if he’s being honest: Dash is pretty sure that he’s correct. He can’t think of any other reason he would let someone put their hands on him. It makes his skin crawl, as a warm, slightly calloused hand ran over his cheek, tracing scar tissue gently. Dash has no shortage of scar tissue. He went back for Marshall. Maybe he should have thought more about what he was doing, but he'd been a kid. They'd all been kids.  
  
 Mr. and Mrs. Teller had been good about it. Hell: They'd taken him into their home when he realized he didn't have one. They'd help him figure out how to navigate life again, with only one eye, and such limited movement in one arm. They were good people. He owed them and he hated owing people.  
  
“Who was the first person you ever kissed?” Dash blanches.  
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answers too.” Dash replied, finally pushing the hand away and sitting up. It’s not like he owes Eddie anything, after all. They’re not dating, in fact, Eddie is married. Dash is here for something no strings attached, he has no such desire to be ‘the other man’ in the relationship. That’s not quite how he rolls.  
  
“But I do want to know the answer.” He said, sitting up as Dash left the bed, grabbing his clothes off the floor. Underwear, pants, undershirt, shirt. In that order.    
“Why does it matter?”  
“Because I want to know about you.”  
“It’s not like we’re dating.” Dash replied, “What makes you think you have any right to know me?” There was a reason Dash didn’t usually hang around this long after the sex finished.  Eddie was fine, but he was incapable of not getting on Dash’s last nerve when he just wanted to go home. They would never last in a real relationship, Dash would probably kill him.  
  
“I know. That’s why I’m asking about the only thing we do together.”  
“Who was your first kiss?”  
“Katie McDougal, in the back of my car.” The name means nothing to Dash. Damn it, he’d thought Eddie would back off when confronted by the same question, but no such luck.  
He decided to tell the truth, since it was more unbelievable than any lie he could tell.  
  
“Marshall Teller, trapped in a cupboard at the Eerie Bait Store and Sushi bar hunting for Simon Holmes goldfish that was possibly radioactive after his brother gave it green cornade.”  
“Oh. “  
“You asked.”  
“Sorry.”  
Dash pulled his shirt over head and sat down to lace up his boots. They were comfortable, and he liked them a lot. Made him feel tall. (A mean feat given his final height was apparently 5’’1)  
“I’ll see you around.” He said, finally, reaching for his trench coat, which was hanging over a chair.  
“Yeah.” Eddie said, watching him go.  
  
Dash does have a drivers license. Don’t listen to anyone accusing him of attempting vehicular manslaughter. Cars were also expensive, however. His car, as it was, worked only half of the time. This morning, it decided not to even start, so. Walking it was.  
He could have taken the bus. But the buses were not open right now, and the ones that were……..Well. So he mostly only used his car to get groceries.  Speaking of groceries, he needs some. The only shop between his place and Eddie’s was the Eerie Maxi Mini Mart. Open 24 hours for all your late night needs.  
He wandered into the fluorescent light lit room, and grabbed a basket from the stack by the door. He just needed a few things. He paused by the magazine section to get up to date on the celebrity gossip. Someone called Kylie Minogue was having twins, apparently. Good for her. Something to do with Britany Spears. Justin Timberlake was still around. He was all caught up.  
Moving on.  
He grabbed a loaf of bread off the rack, and followed that up with three cans of the aforementioned green Cornade. It might make him glow in the dark but it was also very addictive. He liked a good sugar rush. Before he can move on to consider the various packets of instant noodles, he’s recognized.  
“Dash!”  
Melanie Monroe is coming towards him, holding a jar of chili powder. Nothing else, just chili powder. She must be staying with Janet again.    
  
“Ms Monroe.” He said hoping in vain that she would leave him alone. It’s not that he doesn’t like her, she’s perfectly nice and all that, it’s just not a good night.  
“You’re out late.”  
“So are you.”  
“Fair play.” She said, awkwardly smiling. She knows what day it is. “Are you going to the dinner tomorrow night?” Mrs Teller was holding a dinner in Marshall’s memory for some of his close friends. Simon had been put in charge of delivering invitations.  
“I don’t know.”  
“I think you should.”  
“Thank you for your input.” He said, “But I still don’t know.” She gave him another look, that he cannot decipher and then nodded.  
“Okay. Have you read Simon’s new book?”  
“Yes.”  
“Did you like it?”  
“Due to my friendship with Mister Holmes I am obligated to say yes.”  
“Truthfully?” Dash examined her carefully. She was a nice girl, and Devon was a nice…Whatever he was. She probably didn’t deserve to have her head bit off.  
“It’s good.” He said, finally. “Can’t comment on the actual quality of it, but I thought it was fine.” She smiled.  
“That’s good. I’m glad he’s got something to do.”  
“Hm.” He replied noncommittedly, moving past her to examine the collections of instant noodles.  
“And how about you?” She insisted, “How are you?”  
“I’m fine.” He replied, grabbing the chicken flavor four pack off the shelf and stuffing it into his basket.  
“I presume that’s why you’re shopping at two am.”  
“I might say the same thing about you.” He said, moving off to grab a couple of frozen pizzas from the fridge. He suspected he would be having Simon over a few nights while he was here, so he opted for supreme. He didn’t much care for it, but Simon did.  
“If you want me to go, you just had to tell me.”  
“I want you to go.”  
“I’ll keep a seat warm for you tomorrow.” She told him, moving to the checkout. Dash rolled his eyes and dropped the boxes into his basket.  
  
He wandered over to the dairy. He needed milk. He grabbed both chocolate and plain. A man needs vices. His phone let off a loud noise where it was safely tucked away in his jacket. Reaching a hand inside, he produced he chunky, out of date Nokia and gave it a glance. Simon. He almost texted back, but thinking about how drunk Simon had gotten, he decided it wasn’t worth it. He just wanted to get home, drink his milk, be sad about Marshall and go to bed.  
He paid at the counter (with real dollars he actually earned, these days shoplifting from the World ‘O Stuff was just for fun), took his bag, and headed out. It was a forty minute walk from The Maxi Mini Mart to home.  
It kept him fit, at any rate.  
  
Dash lived on the edge of town in his tiny one bedroom ‘’apartment’’. It wasn’t really an apartment. It was half a duo complex that was only ever inhabited on one side. It was actually part of a failed attempt to develop the edges of town by Mayor Chisel in a desperate power grab. It had worked, at the time. But then the things that lived on the edge of town had been rather unhappy about this development. Most people didn’t come out this far, and the ones that did rarely stayed. Dash is well used to weird things, and as a result, the things that lived in the woods didn’t really bother him. So long as he kept to himself and didn’t damage any plant life. He’s not lazy, but yard work was never something that interested him anyway.  
He likes living alone on the edge of town.  
Hell; He even likes walking alone at night. Small towns are good like that.  
He turned the final corner, and made his way up the steps passed the overgrown lawn to his front door. The Tellers had been very kind in assisting him to get his own place. The Tellers seemed to have no bottom to their kindness. It worried him sometimes.  
  
He plugged his key into the door and let himself in. It was already unlocked, which was his first red flag. He pushed his house key between his fingers and stepped inside. He could hear rustling in the ‘living room’ (The corner where he pushed his cheap sofa) and turned the corner.  
  
Simon was standing in his living room, in front of a person tied to a chair, wearing a bag on their head.  
“Dash!” He said, “This isn’t what it looks like!” Simon, still kinda drunk, told him.  
“Really? Because it looks like you have someone tied to a chair in my living room.” Dash, brutally sober, replied.  
“Okay so it is what it looks like but just hear me out okay?” Dash folded his arms, annoyed.  
“You better have a damn good explanation for this.” He said, thinking about the cornade, and he might need it if this conversation was going to deviate into the supernatural.  
“Zombie.”  
“Zombie?”  
“Zombie.”  
“Simon, what the fuck is goin’ on?”  
“Just….” Simon walked over to his prisoner and pulled the bag off his head. Dash didn’t recognize him at first, he was wet, shivering and slightly blue lipped.  
When he looked up, Dash hates himself for the split second he didn’t know because he does know.  
Marshall Teller.


	2. When It Rains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marshall is awake. Dash and Simon are fighting.

Marshall blinked at the sudden intrusion of light through his eyelids. He’s fucking cold, so fucking cold. He’s been shivering for ages, and he really wants to get out of his wet clothes. And have a hot shower….Yeah…   
He isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting here, but Crazy Mc Crazy pants has been flipping through books for an hour at least. Or maybe it was ten minutes, he has no way to tell at the moment. Despite the bone deep chill and confusion on the evening, he’s reasonably sure that Dash, and certain that Simon will be coming for him sooner over later. Until then, he figured that he’d try to catch up on a bit of sleep. No use to anyone if he can’t hold his own, right?   
Eyes closed, he listened to the muffled talking outside his bagged head (the man had the decency to go for paper at least.) and was almost asleep when the light from an overhead bulb rudely interrupted him.   
“…Huh?” He mumbled, behind the piece of tape over his mouth. He found himself staring into two faces, one he knew (Lake man) and one that must have come in a few moments ago. He was short, had gray hair, a burn scar all along the side of his face, and a milky coloured eye. He reached one hand to comb through his hair, and Marshall nearly fainted when he recognized the mark on the back of his hand as a dash.  
What was going on? Was this another alien? Was he going to find out what the Hell was going on with the gray haired kid? Despite being tired, his mind finally clocks him into the conversation.   
  
“Simon you have to untie him.”  
“I can’t! What if he’s a demon or zombie!”   
“And what if he’s actually Marshall, and he's been zapped here by this that and the third demonic entity?” Grey hair is already moving towards him. Simon? As in his Simon? Surely not. Though now he’s looking he can see similarities.  Same chin, soft light colored curls, big warm eyes. This wasn’t right. Maybe Dash reached an arm out and ripped the tape off his mouth.   
It hurt like a bitch.   
Maybe Simon was still talking, but Marshall can’t force his mind to tune in, and it looks like Maybe Dash is used to not listening. He is using a pocket knife (where it came from Mars doesn’t know) to slice through the piece of rope keeping him to the battered floral pattern couch.   
“Dash! Are you listening to me?!” Simon demanded.   
“What if he’s actually a scared fifteen-year-old boy who you’ve tied to the couch?”  
“What if he’s evil?”  
“He’s shivering and can barely keep his eyes open, what kinda evil is that? What’s that thing you used to say? Mega Voodoo Eerie Weirdness? Is it so out of this world that Marty Mc Fly here comes from the past?”  
Simon conceded, and let Dash lead Marshall to the bathroom.   
“Here.” He said, reaching into the under sink cupboard of the butter box room for a towel. “Shower. Get warm. I’ll leave dry clothes outside.”   
  
And with that, Maybe Dash was gone. Marshall was still going with Maybe Dash because the Dash he knew would never be so trusting. Or buy green Cornade for that matter. But he didn’t see any easy methods of escape for the bathroom, so he reached into the shower, and turned the hot tap. The water that came through the tap was the wrong color for a brief moment, before turning normal. Weird.   
  
Putting his hand in the water, Marshall waited for it to reach a better temperature before stripping, and stepping into the spray. His clothes were cold and wet and he was glad to be rid of them. He doesn’t take off the key, only mildly concerned about the small green marks that have begun to show up on his neck, from the silver chain eroding. He'd seen it before. When Syndi's boyfriend gave her a ring, and she wore it until the green mark on her finger looked more like a tattoo than a stai.   
   
He let the warm water soak through to his bones, taking his time to wash the dirty lake water off his skin and out of his hair. He poured a generous amount of shampoo onto his hand, and began to work it into his hair. This may well be a life and death situation, but he’d take death over greasy hair any day. When he was satisfied, he washed it out and after a moment, decided to pilfer more hair supplies and went in for a second dose of shampoo, just to be sure.   
  
Outside, he could hear an argument, but only in pieces.   
“…Dead…..idiot…..Marylin”  
“Not…..Shut…..Understand...”  
“…..Wait…..Time….He...”  
It all makes up to a puzzle that he lacks the corner pieces for. With his death-by-cold temporally avoided, he began to sift through the pieces he did have.   
10/10/94:  (his last memory of time)  
The fire at the old Mill, and being caught in the building.   
Dash running back for him.   
Being pulled into the lake.   
Swimming to the surface.   
Maybe Simon.   
Maybe Dash with his burned face.   
  
This is all adding up to a picture he doesn’t much care for. He turned his face up to wash the conditioner out of his hair (It was going to make him smell like strawberries, apparently)   
He stepped out onto the mat, and stood for a moment to let the worst of the water drain. He reached out, and took the towel into his hands. It’s old, and there is a hole in it. The bathroom is full of steam. He reached out with one hand to wipe the single mirror single sink vanity clear and examine himself, but he stops when he realized the mirror was cracked. The impact zone was pretty close to the center, and he wondered what had happened to it. Instead, he picked up the little makeup mirror sitting on the edge of the sink. Nothing much to see here, still Marshall Teller.   
  
He eventually moved to stick one arm out to the cold hallway and pull in the clothes. They’re a bit small, but they’ll do. It’s just pajamas anyway. He pulled the clothes on, and looked to the ones he’d arrived in. After a few moments, he untangled them, and hung them over the side of the gross bathtub to dry a bit. He’d deal with them some other time.   
His head felt heavy, as he ran the towel through his hair to get more water out. The pajamas consisted of a shirt that had a logo on the front he didn’t recognize,  and the pants are too small, and his ankles are on display in such a fashion that a 19th-century woman would blush.   
  
Leaving the bathroom, he made his way down the hall, the arguing getting louder.   
“Oh, go fuck yourself! You were the one who gave up!”  
“I gave up because you left, you dipshit!”  
Marshall stood by the door, and looked in. There is a can of green cornade in Maybe Dash’s hand, green cornade on Maybe Simon’s face, and then again on Maybe Dash’s shirt in the shape of two handprints on his chest.  
  
“Marshall.” Maybe Dash said, realizing that he was there.   
“Yeah.” He said, looking between them. They at least had the decency to be a bit embarrassed by their fighting. “What the Hell is going on?” He asked, folding his arms over his chest, looking frustrated. “Because I’m confused and…I want to go home.” Maybe Dash looks at Maybe Simon.   
  
“Sit down.” Maybe Simon says, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe green cornade off his face. Marshall does, on the side of the couch that was dry. Maybe Simon wrung his fingers and looked thoughtful before he began (Sounding much more sober)   
“What’s the last thing you remember?”  
“There was a fire at the Mill. I…Fell? I heard Dash coming towards me.  Then I felt something grab my ankle. A few moments later, I was in the lake being pulled to the bottom.” They share a look he can’t interpret.   
  
“How do we know you’re the real Marshall?” Simon asks.   
“Ask him a question only the real Marshall would know the answer too.”  
“What is my favorite food?” Maybe Simon asks.   
“Swedish Chicken,” Marshall replies. Dash looks over.   
“He’s right.”  
“What happened at the Eerie Bait store and Sushi joint?” Marshall blushed profusely.   
"Uh."   
“It’s him.” Dash confirmed   
“What happened at the Bait store?” Simon asked, confused.   
“Nothing that we were going to concern a twelve-year-old with.” Dash replied.   
“Hey, can I just ask, what the Hell is going on?” Marshall asked, folding his arms over his chest. “Who are you, what’s happening?” Maybe Simon, suddenly realizes that maybe he should let Marshall into the conversation.

  
“What year do you think it is?” He asked Marshall.   
“1994.” Long pause,   
“It’s 2004.”  
“It can’t be.” He responded, right away. “It can’t be.”  
“It is.” Dash said, “Marshall you’ve been missing for ten years.”   
“What?”  
“You vanished.”  There was a long pause. Marshall has a headache. Dash put his cornade on the table, and then said, “I’m sure you’ve figured out who we are, by now.” Marshall nodded, and pointed at Simon.   
“Simon.” Then to Dash.   
“Dash.”  
“Yes.” Simon agreed, and put his face in his hands. He looks tired. “I need to get back to the Teller house."   
"Not without telling me what the Hell is happening!"   
"What do you want us to say?" Dash asked, "You were gone, now you arent and I imagine we need to get you back to where you come from."   
"You sound sure of that," Simon said,   
"I've seen enough movies to know this plot." Is Dash's reply, and Marshall gives him an angry look. "What?" Dash asked, before rolling his eyes.   
"Chillax, Slick. They got no idea."  
"No idea about what? I don't like being left out!" Simon said,   
"Nothing important. You should get home to the Tellers." Dash said, fobbing him off.    
“When are we leaving?” Marshall asked.   
“You aren’t.” S said, after a moment.   
“What do you mean?”  
“You’ve been gone ten years, I really don’t think showing up at midnight is the right introduction to Eerie Weirdness.” Simon pointed out.  Marshall let out a long sigh. He wanted to go home, and then to bed.   
“You’ll stay here.” Dash decided, looking at Simon. Simon nodded, and then looked at the door.   
  
“I’ll uh. Walk.”  
“You can take the car.”  
“Your car is a death trap.” Simon replied, picking up his coat. He turns to look at Marshall one last time, that same expression on his face. Then, he left.   
Marshall looked to Dash, who was carrying his shopping bag into the kitchen.   
“The bedroom is in the back.” He said, turning his back, and opening his fridge.   
“Okay.” Marshall replied. He’s tired, maybe he should just go to bed. Think about this again tomorrow. Sounded like a plan. He wandered out the back, and opened the door.   
The room is clean. One of the drawers is open, the bed is unmade and the cupboard is missing a handle but otherwise it was perfectly habitable. He did his best to straighten the sheets, and then climbed into the bed. Light crept in under the door, and he could hear Dash wandering around. A cupboard opened, and closed. Then the light went out, only to turn on again and flicker, accompanied by a soft voice attempting to hawk some kind of air mattress.   
Marshall fell asleep easily, despite it.

  
...

  
As it turns out, Simon didn’t have to worry. When he got back to the Teller house, no one else was awake. He let himself in as quietly as he could, having walked all the way from the other side of town. How Dash did so much walking was still beyond him. He had his headphones on for the walk here, and didn’t think about anything other than the sound of Meat Loaf on his old, shitty I-Pod. Maybe thinking it was shitty was rude, it was a hand me down from Syndi after all.   
He stuffed it back into his pocket, and did his best to sneak up Marshall’s room without making too much noise. He cleared off his clothes, tossing them aside, and tugging on his pajama shirt. He climbed into bed, and found his eyes resting on the Giants lamp sitting on the bedside table. Despite the fact that he, Dash and Harley have slept in this room many times in the last few years, no one has moved anything from how it was when Marshall was here.   
  
There are a couple of pictures there too. He took one into his hands and examined it though the light of the moon streaming into through the blinds. Marshall and his friends from New Jersey. Simon has met a couple of them, one was possessed by a lonely ghost upon his visit and had tried to suck Marshall into the Netherworld. He doesn’t know if any of them are coming tomorrow. They look happy, he thought, running his eyes over the image.   
  
The door cracks open, and Marylin put her head in.   
“I thought I heard you come in.” She murmured.   
“I didn’t mean to wake anyone.”  
“It’s okay. Edgar could sleep through a hurricane. I wasn’t asleep.” She walked in and sat on the bed. She took the photo out of Simon’s hands and smiled sadly. Simon sat, and drew his knees to his chin. She gently traced Marshall’s face with one hand.   
“Did you have a good night?”  
“I went to see Dash.” He said, softly.   
 “How is he?”  
“Getting by.”  
“Aren’t we all.” She commented, putting the picture back. She picked up several polaroids bound together on a piece of string. She flipped through a couple. They were mostly of Simon and Marshall looking at stuff. She came to stop on one that was meant to test the camera and as both Simon and Marshall in the mirror. Marshall is holding the camera.   
“I hope that wherever he is, he knows that he will always be welcomed home.”  
“I thought the official ruling was that he was killed in the fire.” Simon says, though he knows that’s not the truth.   
“I’d know if my son was dead.” Marylin replied, “Same way I knew that you needed a phone call at college or when Harley needed a place to stay.”   
“How?”  
“Mother’s intuition.”  
“Even if Harley and I aren’t your sons?”  
“You are my sons.” Pause. “You’re more my sons than your mothers.” Marylin doesn’t often make comment on his parents but this one is especially bitter. He can understand. His parents had sons that they didn’t notice, or care about. Marylin had a son that she loved with all her heart who was gone, and she would do anything to see again. The opposition is astounding. She didn’t understand how someone could take their children so for granted.  “Even if I didn’t give birth to you, you're both my children,” she asked. “Marshall would have wanted us to make sure you were okay.”   
  
Simon wasn’t going to argue with that. He has a lot to thank Marshall for. It was the money that was meant to put him through college that went to Simon. It was college that gave him the tools to write. It was writing that paid his bills. It was paying his bills that allowed him to send Harley to a boarding school so far away.   
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Claire.” Marylin said, putting the photos down.   
“It’s okay. I knew it was coming.” He said, “She doesn’t understand my need to write, just how I didn’t understand her need to analyse.”  
“You’ll find your someone.” Marylin promised, “I used to think that there was no one on Earth who I could fall in love with.”  
“But then you met Edgar.”  
“And I wondered how I could ever have thought there was no one out there for me.” She said, putting a hand on Simon’s arm, leant in and kissed his forehead. “Good night, Simon.” She stood, and walked out of the room. Simon put his hands on the sticky part of his face, sighed, and shut his eyes. He’d shower in the morning.   
  
The sun still rose the next morning. It streamed in through the window, waking both Simon and his headache up, too damn fast. He didn’t get out of bed for several moments just turned to examine the Giants clock by the bed. 8:30 am. Probably time to get up, help Marylin prepare for the dinner later today.   
He sat bolt upright.   
  
He had to go see Dash, and ask about last night. It couldn’t be Marshall, there was no way. It must have been some kind of drunk hallucination. He struggled out of bed, and then into the shower. He’s never had such a quick shower in his life. He washed the green cornade off his face and chest, and out of his hair. His chest was still wet when he tugged a clean t-shirt on over his head. As he ran down the stairs, he pulled his shoes onto bare, wet feet.   
  
Marylin and Edgar were busy in the kitchen, eating something that Edgar had brought home from work that appeared to be some kind of stiff pancake. Marylin was dipping it in jam, Edgar had made his into a bacon and egg sandwich.   
“Simon!” He said, “You should try a pancake sandwhich.” Marylin rolled her eyes,   
“It’s better with jam.”   
“I gotta get to Dash’s place.” He said, “I left…My phone….There.”  
“Your phone? Is it important?” Edgar asked.   
“Yeah, I’m waiting on a call from my publisher.”  
“Really?”  
“Yeah, I just gotta head over and grab it, I’ll be back before you even start cooking.” He promised, shoving his arms into his coat as he hurried out. He didn’t look back to see if they were suspicious of something.   
  
Simon didn’t have a car, so he caught the bus. The seat was uncomfortable, and it was like being transported back to the 90’s on the inside. The bus seats were blue with a geometric pattern on them, and were worn down from so many people using them over the years. The bus smells rather of uncomfortable air being pumped in by the old AC unit. The other patrons on the bus were all locals as far as he could tell, but the only one he recognized was Sara Sue, who was sketching into a pad the size of her head. He doesn’t remember why she came back. There was no reason for her to.   
  
Dash was bound here. The Tellers were waiting on a son who would never come. Syndi worked at the local highschool while her husband was the only decent doctor in town. Melaine never wanted to venture far from Devon’s grave, and Janet wanted to be around Melaine. Tod cared for his ailing mother. Harley was still in his parents custody.   
What reason did Simon have to come back? He was based in New York, he lived near Harley’s boarding school. None, really. He had a career he liked, his poetry was popular, he had an apartment,  he didn’t have an especially good relationship with Dash, and he was sure Mr and Mrs Teller would understand if he never wanted to come back.   
  
He sat back in his chair and shut his eyes for several moments. Then, he felt someone sit next to him. Annoyed that whoever it was didn’t seem to be paying attention to the laws that govern people alone on big empty busses, he turned to see who it was. Sara Sue smiled at him.   
“I read your new book.”   
“Hello to you too.” He said, finally. “Did you like it?”  
“It was okay. I would have left out the poem about the space thing, it’s too sad.”  
“I see.”  
“Where are you headed?” Simon kept watching her as she leant over her drawing to keep working on it, she has a new haircut, what might have been a very respectable perm, with blonde top and brown on the bottom. Mrs Teller had something like that in the 90s.   
“To see a friend.”  
“Oh.”  
“Where are you headed?”  
“School. I have marking to do.”  
“what do you teach?”  
“Art.”  
“Stupid question.” He said, after a moment.   
“Mm.” She replied, with half a smile. “Is that certain friend prematurely gray with tattoos?”  
“How did you know?”  
“I didn’t. You just confirmed it.”  
“How do you know anything about Dash?”  
“Is that his name?”  
“Fuck.”  
“I’ve seen him around town, he’s hard to miss. He’s having an affair with Eddie, who is married to the sister in law of Moe Bob.”  
“How on Earth do you know who Moe Bob’s Sister in Law is having affairs with?” Sara Sue tapped her nose and then went back to drawing.   
When he’s one stop away from the stop closest to Dash’s place, Sara Sue speaks again.   
“I’m sorry about Marshall.”  
“Seven years ago, I promised myself I’d slap the next person who told me they were sorry about Marshall into the next dimension.”  
“Sorry about that too.”  
“Marshall going missing was very sad. But it was also a very long time ago.” Sara Sue stood so Simon could walk to the front of the bus. “See you around.”  
He doesn’t look back.  
  
It’s a short walk to Dash’s place from the bus stop, so he reached the door quickly. He knocked twice, and heard a shuffling of feet behind the wood. Then the door opened, and Dash was stood there. He lets Simon in without comment.   
He stepped into the main room, and looked through to the couch, which was inhabited by a man drinking something out of a chipped mug. Not just any man, though. Marshall Telller. Simon feels light headed, and like he seriously needs to sit the Hell down.   
“ What’s up with you?” Dash hissed, as Simon moved to sit on the couch next to him. Marshall (Or at least, who he presumed to be Marshall), moved away from him. Simon grabbed Dash by the shirt collar and pulled him in.   
“What’s going on?”   
“What the Hell are you talking about?”  He demanded, before looking at Marshall. “Go have a shower.”  He instructed.   
“Get fucked.”  Marshall replied, “Simon what are you doing?” He asked, reaching out to get force Simon’s hand off Dash’s shirt.   
“What are you doing?” Simon asked,  “How did you get here?”  
“ I don’t know!”  Marshall said, “ How could I know?”  He continued, “I’ve only been here as long as you.”  He and Simon locked eyes for a brief moment, before separating. Simon sighed and sat back.

  
“I thought you were a hallucination.” He admitted, “A drunken hallucination.”   
“Well he’s not.” Dash pointed out, sounding more than a little bit annoyed.   
“I can see that.” Simon bit back.   
“What are we going to do?” Marshall asked, “How do I get back home?”  He asked, sounding a little desperate. Not that Simon would blame him, he’d also be more than a little concerned if he showed up ten years in the future one day.   
Truth be told, he didn’t know. He looked at Dash, who also looked concerned.   
“I don’t know.” Simon admitted, “But I’ll find out.”  
“Tomorrow.” Dash said, “Right now, we’re going to go to your place and help your mother prepare a dinner in your honor.”  
“I’m coming to.”  
“I don’t think so.” Dash replied,  “You will be staying here. I don’t want to explain this to her, not until we know what we’re dealing with.” Marshall looked at Simon.   
“He’s right.” Simon sighed, “It’s safer for you, and for everyone else.” Marshall looked annoyed, and then proceeded to stand up, and walk to the bathroom in silence.   
“Are you going dressed like that?” Simon asked, looking Dash up and down. His shirt had a hole in it,  his jeans were impressively low cut, and his belt was chunky.   
“She’d think it was weird if I dressed up.” Dash replied, and he was right. Simon sighed slightly, and looked towards the bathroom, before following Dash to the door. 


	3. Dishwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dash and Simon go to a dinner. Marshall stays home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took a lot longer than I thought.

Dash is not a big fan of any size gathering of people of any description. Or loud noises. Or really anything that would even remotely described as a party. In fact, he walked out in the middle of his own 21st that was held for him by Mr. and Mrs. Teller. But, there was no denying the fact that this is one of the rare times when he would have to put in an appearance.   
  
For one, it would be rude to turn away an invitation that Edgar delivered by hand.   
  
For two, he owed the Tellers big time and he didn’t really want to be seen as ungrateful.   
  
For three, Melaine Monroe was keeping a seat warm for him.   
  
They took his car into town. It actually started this morning with no fight, and for that Dash was grateful, there was not an awful lot to be excited about otherwise, though. He didn’t really want to spend his whole day at the Teller house, dealing with this. He wanted to find a way get Marshall back home so that their lives can go to how they should be.   
  
“How was your night?” Simon asked the air was so full of tension that it could have been cut with a knife.   
 “It was fine. I went to bed.”   
“In...The same bed?” Dash is actually a little offended by that. Certainly, he’d been close with Marshall, just on the edge of more than friends, but they’d never be (or wanted to be) anything official. And not to mention the fact that he was in his thirties at least, and Marshall was still fifteen. Making out with a fifteen-year-old was not on his to-do list, in fact, it was on his not to do list, right under ‘take a knife directly to the eyeball’.  
  
“What the fuck, Simon? No! I slept on the couch.”  Dash said, annoyed and kind of indignant.   
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just everyone knows how you guys felt –“   
“So you presumed that I’d just pick up where I left off?”   
“Given that you’ve never told anyone where you left off, is it truly such an out there idea?” Simon replied, turning the steering wheel perhaps a little too hard. He doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the drive. Which is just how Dash likes it.  
  
Dash has not set foot in the Teller house for almost three years. He appreciated everything the Tellers did for him, he’s not ungrateful. But that was why he couldn’t come into the Teller house. He didn’t want to remember. He hated the memories that he had of just after Marshall went missing.   
  
He hated them with a passion.   
  
But there comes a time in everyone’s life they have to make a sacrifice. Before they stepped inside, Simon has a key and the Tellers don’t even bother to lock their front door most of the time, he grabbed Simon by the arm.   
  
“Listen to me. What happened to Marshall is undeniably fucked up, we both know that, but when we go to this thing this afternoon, you better pretend everything is peachy keen.” He pulled Simon closer. “Peachy – Fucking – Keen.”   
Simon nodded, and the two of them stepped into the house. The walls are still white, there are still two levels, the kitchen table still has six chairs. It still looks like a home.  Dash swallows and follows Simon into the kitchen.   
  
The dinner (Dash didn’t want to call it a party) started late in the evening. Old friends leaked in the door one by one. Melaine Monroe, Janet Donner (with an arm full of watches), Simon (obviously), some dude that was apparently Marshall’s best friend in New Jersey, Syndi, and her boyfriend.   
The air was always thick with something when he was around Syndi. If you asked him, he wouldn't be able to tell you why exactly. He's always thought that she thought that he had something to do with Marshall going missing.   
  
But that was well too many people for Dash to exactly be comfortable with. He’s not a sociable person by any means. He doesn’t keep friends outside of Simon anyway. Despite how he sometimes acted, he did care about the kid. Dash had a copy of all his published poems back home, and Hell, he’d even suffered through a crowd to listen to him read a poem about tuning teeth or something earlier in the year.   
  
He excused himself pretty early on and made his way outside to sit at the old picnic bench. It was a beautiful night. The moon was shiny in the sky, but small. Kind of reminded him of a toenail clipping. The air was cold, and it felt nice. He liked winter when he was in a position to have a warm bed to return to.   
  
Pulling his coat closer, he fished a box of cigarettes out of his pocket. He lit it with his plastic gas station lighter and took a long drag starring up at the sky. He missed Marshall a lot. Which was sort of ridiculous. Their brief relationship had been just that; brief. They’d never even told anyone. It was useless to pine for someone that may have grown up into someone who wasn’t worth liking anyway.   
  
Was that to explain his ability to form any sort of lasting relationship, or would that have happened anyway and Dash was just destined to be alone? Afterall:  Dash has certainly grown into someone unlikeable. He didn’t like himself most of the time, so how could he expect anyone else to?   
And now Marshall was back home, alive and well, and here he was surrounded by his grieving family. The grieving family who had always been so good to him. The ones who still sent him a Christmas gift every year and invited him to sit with them on Tornado Day. Who helped him get his home. Who had been nothing but kind to him. He probably made the right choice in limiting his time with them.   
  
A while later, Dash hadn’t really been counting time, someone came outside. He didn’t look over for several moments and realized that it was Marshall’s father Edgar. He sat on the table next to Dash, and took a cigarette out of his box. Dash didn’t object when Edgar lit it with a fancy lighter that Simon had given him for fathers day a couple of years ago.   
“You smoke?”  
“Sometimes,” Edgar replied, taking a drag and sighing softly.   
“Marylin doesn’t know?” Edgar doesn’t reply. Dash wasn’t quite sure how to take it. He’s on his second for the evening. He looked over at the man and felt…Kind of sad.   
  
“Do you know that in 1994, the statistic for couples who went through marital problems after losing a child was ninety percent?”  He asked. Dash looked over at him, and raised an eyebrow. He didn’t know where this was going, but he also didn’t interrupt.   
  
“I’m a man of science.”  Edgar continued, “There’s a twenty-seven percent chance that Marshall was taken by someone he knew. There is an eighty percent chance Marshall met whoever took him within a quarter mile from the house. Twenty percent of children taken in non-family abductions are never found alive and there’s a seventy-four percent chance he was dead three hours after he was gone.”  Edgar finished.   
  
“That’s a lot of statistics.” Depressing statistics. None of them were accurate but really they didn’t even know what they were dealing with yet, and frankly, it seemed cruel to get someone’s hopes up like that.    
  
“The odds that I would ever see my son again were grim.” Edgar said, “And then I read this statistic that I was going to lose my wife too.” Long pause, “In 1999, another study was published, claiming that only twelve percent of couples who lose a child end up going through with a divorce, but I didn’t know that.”  Edgar continued, “I didn’t know what I was going to do. How I was going to save our marriage, protect the children we still had, and keep the search for Marshall going.”  He let out a long breath that mimics dragon breath. “And I couldn’t do all of that.”  He said, “I couldn’t protect Simon and Harley from their parents, I couldn’t protect Syndi’s teenage years, I couldn’t even protect my son.”    
  
There is a long pause and Dash feels a bit like his insides have been put through a blender.   
“But I could drive to the hospital, and make sure you were okay.”  Dash looked up. “I could take you to physical therapy. I could help you change your bandages. So that was what I did.”   
“Thank you, for that.”  Dash has said plenty of thank yous for how the Tellers treated him over the years. Thinking back, he wouldn’t have known that Edgar was barricading himself into a downwards spiral. In fact, he seemed to be the one holding everything together.   
“I wanted to say I was sorry, actually.”   
“For helping me?”   
“For using you.”   
 “Where do you get off calling helping someone using them?” He asked voice amused more than anything.   
“In the way that I used you to tell myself that I could still be useful, still help. We never even asked you.”   
“I wasn’t really in a way that I could have answered.” Dash said, “And even if I was, I wouldn’t have said no.”   
“I’ve always wondered if that’s why you left.” Edgar said, “And that’s why you don’t call anymore.”   
“I’m…I’m not a good person.” Dash said, “I don’t call, because I don’t want to bring anyone else down with me when I inevitably crash.”   
“Crash?”   
“Cave in on myself.”   
“What makes you think you’ll do that?”   
“I know myself. I do stupid shit, then I pay for it.” Like right now. He was sleeping with not one, but two married men, keeping drugs in his home and walking the streets of Eerie at night.   
  
“I’ll give you some fatherly wisdom. I think I’ve still got some of that.”  Edgar told Dash, who looked at him, closing his bad eye.  “You’ve lived this long, and you’ve made it this far. You’ve lived through so much worse than whatever you’re doing you consider stupid shit. I know you have because I was there. You’ll come out the other side. And don’t smoke, it’s bad for you.” Edgar said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and crushing both his and Dash’s under his foot.  Dash should be annoyed, but he’s not. Instead, he let Edgar put an arm around him and point out his favorite constellations. If he fell asleep out there, then no one but Edgar was any the wiser.   
  
…  
  
Dash’s place is small. Marshall has not had much experience with houses in his life, but this one was. Small.  
  
There was a living space filled with a couch, a television, a television stand, more VHS tape than Marshall would have known what to do with and a table. The table has plenty of take away containers on the top, and the couch has dirty laundry all over it.   
  
Maybe he should clean up a little bit? Marshall was never a particularly tidy person, but Dash’s house was a fucking nightmare. He started by gathering up the old take away containers off the table and tossing them in the trash. What was the world of 2004 like, if that’s really where he was? Frankly, he could be anywhere, and he didn’t even know how he got here, even though he did have a few ideas.   
  
His best idea was that there was something at the bottom of the lake, he thought, as he started running the sink. Not strictly an evil something, just. A something. Something that had sucked him here. Into the future, or a universe that looked very much like it. This whole multiverse thing did tend to get pretty confusing; he’d already given up on understanding it.   
  
Dash didn’t have a lot of dishes to be cleaned, mostly just trash to be thrown out. Seemed his diet was little more than take away and instant noodles. Correction, there was cereal in the cupboard. There was no way a normal person could live off of this was there? He mused, careful not to think too much about his situation. He’s not in control. He likes to be in control.   
  
So it’s been ten years. And for what? He’s too scared to listen to the radio or watch television because he doesn’t want to know what he’s missed. In fact, he’s scared. Period. He wants to go home to his mother and father. But he can’t. He saw them just yesterday. The last thing he said to her was ‘Of course I will be Mom’ and then took off with Simon.   
  
Dash’s clothes were mostly too small for him to wear, so he’d been given a shirt that was too big that Dash had apparently won in a competition and a pair of pants that had J.U.I.C.Y written on the ass that had apparently been a joke gift from someone. Marshall didn’t know exactly what was meant to be juicy, but it wasn’t as if he had much by way of choice. Who would have known Dash would grow up to be so short.   
  
Who would have known Dash would grow up at all.   
  
If one of them was going to kick it, Marshall always thought it would be Dash in the same fit of weirdness that brought him here in the first place. Not him. It was his damn show. Would people still watch the show if he wasn’t in it? Maybe he wasn’t as important as he thought he was.   
  
Dishes washed and stacked and trash collected, he made his way into the living room and started gathering up discarded VHS tapes. In the mix were a few Betamax tapes, though he didn’t see any Betamax players in the house, and some tapes from video cameras. Once he’d assembled the VHS tapes into a reasonable pile, he went around and gathered up all the cases. Some were just slipcases, some were made from hard plastic with corners so sharp you could probably kill someone with one.   
  
He knelt on the floor between his piles and grabbed the top VHS tape. ‘X Files 12-15’ scrawled on in Dash’s handwriting. He matched it with a case labeled ‘X Files’ and a crude drawing of a flying saucer.   
  
When Todd left Todd and Donna, everyone thought the show was going to end, but it didn’t. Donna just found someone new to have an on again off again relationship with, and they introduced a series of side characters to pick up the slack. When he’d last seen the show, Donna’s new boyfriend just found out he had a teenage son, and Todd (the actor whose name he doesn’t remember, but knows his acting career took a serious nose dive) was coming back from the dead, forcing a pregnant Donna to pick her boyfriend or the love of her life.   
  
Maybe Eerie, Indiana was like that, and there was an audience yelling at the screen about their ship and how it should be canon about him? Maybe there were teenage girls calling their friends to critique the shows choice of how to bring him back. Maybe the show runner was getting his own back for when Marshall changed the script?   
  
Maybe none of that was the truth at all. Maybe the show wasn’t long running at all, maybe it was a reboot? And in this reboot, everyone gets to grow up and be an adult. Except for him. It’s…Not a bad way to bring back the show, but he still doesn’t like it.   
  
He looked down at the tape he just picked up. ‘T&D FINALE ‘98’ followed by an S in a heart. He recognized that, it meant that Syndi had recorded it. Funny that she was still watching the show, even after all these years had gone by. Or at the time, six years had passed. He hadn’t checked to see if it was on television still.   
  
Or why Dash had a copy off it. His sisters copy, even. He grabbed a plain, yellowed slip case and grabbed a couple at once. The first has a snap case, and is a copy of The Goonies. The second has a slip case and is titled ‘Simon Reading ‘03’.  Last year? Well if he was ten years in the future, then yes, the year would be 2004.  Out of curiosity, he slid off the couch and turned on Dash’s tv.   
  
And then turned it back off again.   
  
As much as he did really want to learn about what Dash and Simon had been up to…It felt wrong. He grabbed a plain slipcase, and put the VHS at the bottom of the pile. He sifted through a bunch of  X-Files episodes, a copy of SpiceWorld with a sticker that read ‘HAUNTED – Dash if you watch this and get into trouble than it’s your own damn fault – J.D’, a bunch more ‘Simon Reading’ tapes from every year starting in 1998, The Goonies, A movie called Manos, Hands of Fate, all of the Halloween and Scream films, and half of the Twin Peaks movie. He put them all into cases that could be considered good fits, and then turned to the ones that seemed to have proper cases and were not bootlegs from the television.   
  
Unfortunatley, the first one he picked up was titled ‘Big Breasted Women Go To The Beach and Take Their Clothes off’, and upon looking, found a matching x-rated cover. Blushing furiously, he stuffed the both of them under the couch. He didn’t really have any desire to go through Dash’s wank bank, and decided that he would do something else until later.   
  
He ended up going back into Dash’s all but empty bedroom and taking a look at his bookshelf. Half expecting dirty magazines, he was surprised to find that Dash’s tastes were actually pretty classy. A lot of it was poetry, and it seemed like he’d used sticky notes to pick out some of his favorites. Picking up one from 2001, he flipped through to the one highlighted with a well worn pink sticky note.   
  
‘Home and Away by Simon Holmes’ He skimmed the page long poem before slamming it back onto the bookshelf. He felt guilt bubble up in his stomach. Simon had needed him, but he hadn’t been there. He was the one who dragged Simon on crazy stupid adventures including the one that sent him here. He doesn’t reach for any other books, instead he falls onto Dash’s bed and curled up as tight as he could.   
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Childhood Chills](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921742) by [flashforeward](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashforeward/pseuds/flashforeward)




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